


Prodigals

by madamebadger



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Homecoming, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-06 23:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10346712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamebadger/pseuds/madamebadger
Summary: Josephine and Cassandra travel to Antiva to plan for their wedding. Josephine is delighted to return to her family's home. Cassandra... is terrified.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnchartedCloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnchartedCloud/gifts).



Unlike Cullen, who spent any time aboard a ship or boat of any size turning various shades of green, Cassandra had never minded ship travel. It was faster than overland travel—a great benefit in her mind; she hated delays and preferred accomplishing her duties as quickly as feasible—and, since she was no sailor, provided her with time to catch up with tasks that might otherwise fall behind: tending to her armor and weapons, catching up on her necessary correspondence, and even, if she was lucky, rereading her favorite books.

It was for this reason, she told herself, for this reason and _not_ because of sheer cravenness, that she was not eager for the journey to Antiva City to come to its conclusion. It was not because she was terrified to meet Josephine’s family, terrified that they would dislike her, terrified that she would somehow ruin everything.

(Cassandra was not a very good liar, not even to herself.)

But of course, with each day the ship brought them closer and closer to their destination. Already the heavily-wooded shores near Wycome had given way to the low brush-covered hills of the Antivan shore, and the silvery-gray waters near Orlais were shading into the truer blue of Rialto Bay.

It was as she was regarding those shores, anxiety gnawing at her gut, that Josephine found her. (As Cassandra had spent most of the journey writing letters and reading, Josephine had whiled away the hours, as far as Cassandra could tell, effortlessly making every member of the crew fall in love with her. Cassandra could hardly complain; she was quite certain that the food that they were served at the captain’s table by night was a cut better than that to which their coin entitled them.)

“Don’t look so worried,” Josephine said. Her hand slid into Cassandra’s, warm and comforting, and Cassandra curled her own fingers around it and squeezed briefly, glad for the reassuring contact. “You have nothing to fear. My family will be just as charmed by you as I am, I promise.”

Cassandra didn’t even ask how Josephine knew so readily what was on her mind. Even when she was doing her best to conceal her emotions, Josephine had always been able to read her with the same alacrity and complete comprehension with which she interpreted diplomatic documents. “I find that highly unlikely,” she said sourly. “You are the first person I have ever known who was mad enough to consider me charming, and furthermore I have no idea whatsoever what I managed to do to convince you of that. Nor do I have any faith that lightning will strike twice.”

“Cassandra,” Josephine said, and then, when Cassandra didn’t reply, she added—more softly, but with the firmness she could so easily put into her voice even when it was smooth as silk—” Look at me, Cassandra.”

Cassandra pulled her gaze away from the Antivan coastline, with its rolling hills of variegated green, and to Josephine—whose eyes were, she realized suddenly, the same color, the same silver-gold-green as the brush and herbs and low trees that grew on the coast. Josephine, Antivan to her bones for all that she’d spent more of her life in Orlais than Antiva, was coming home. And for Cassandra, Josephine’s home would be—?

Josephine touched Cassandra’s cheek with light fingers. “You have nothing to worry about, my heart. You make me happy, and that makes my parents happy. Add to that the fact that you are a most suitable match—wellborn, politically well-connected—”

Cassandra snorted.

“—well, you are, you know, whether you like it or not. Most respectable, too, it would be hard to find someone more respectable than the Right Hand of the Divine. And I will be the first to admit that Antivans have a taste for the dramatic, and you are quite capable of cutting a very striking and dignified figure.”

“As long as I keep my mouth shut, that is.”

“Mm. And on that topic, since I know how you feel about small talk, I will reassure you now that my family is voluble enough that your silences are unlikely even to be noticed. We will more than make up for you. You would have greater trouble if you had any desire to get a word in edgewise.”

“I… see.”

“There. So you see, you have nothing to worry about.” Josephine smiled. The wind had whipped bright color into her cheeks and tugged long strands of her hair loose from her coiffure, and for a moment, just a moment, she was so beautiful that Cassandra could not argue because she was wholly tongue-tied, unable to think of a single word of any kind. Instead, though she generally avoided public affection (she was figure enough of gossip without them, to her perpetual annoyance), she allowed herself to slip arms around Josephine’s waist and pull her close for just a moment.

“They will love you,” Josephine said, close in her ear. “I promise you this.”

“I hope you are right,” Cassandra said.

* * *

The ship reached dock at Antiva City well into the evening, too late to take a carriage to the Montilyet estate outside the city, no matter how eager Josephine was to reach her family home at last. (Cassandra did her best to hide her relief at putting off the first meeting, if only for one more night.)

“We shall have to take lodgings tonight,” Josephine said with a sigh, “and charter a carriage tomorrow. Ah, well. It will give me time to show you a little of the city, at least.”

Josephine knew the area well, so Cassandra left her to discuss arrangements with the luggage-handlers. After some quiet conversation and coins changing hands, Josephine returned to her side. “We will stay at the Golden Hart tonight. It is a respectable lodging-house, where our belongings are likely to remain where we put them and not wander off in other peoples’ pockets. But we won’t eat there; it is as boring in its nightly meals as it is reputable in its rooms. I know precisely where we shall have our evening meal.”

It seemed late in the day for an evening meal; Cassandra had half-expected to make do with cheese and bread at this hour. Certainly, in Orlais, this would have been the hour at which supper would be concluding, not beginning. But as they strolled along the streets, working their way from the docks to the merchants’ quarter and the dining-houses, she could see that the crowds were still out in force and the taverns and restaurants bustling. 

“Isn’t it rather late to be so busy?”

Josephine gave her an indulgent smile. “We dine late,” she said, “to avoid the heat of midday. You’ll see tomorrow.” Well, _that_ sounded ominous. “This is actually on the early side, but I presume you are becoming hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You will need a good appetite. Ah, here we are.”

* * *

The dining-house Josephine had chosen had no name that Cassandra could see, but Josephine entered with confidence and was quickly seated. “Do you mind very much if I order for the both of us, love?” Josephine asked.

“Not at all,” Cassandra said. (In truth, she was not sure what she would have done had Josephine not offered. At an alehouse in Ferelden or a bistro in rural Orlais, the servingmaid would tell you what the day’s special was, and you would have that or bread or nothing; in Val Royeaux, you would order from a menu-card. But neither was in evidence here, nor a slate writingboard on which the day’s menu was written, and nor could Cassandra even hazard a guess as to what might be on offer.

Josephine had a swift conversation in Antivan with a man who appeared to be proprietor. (It was, Cassandra realized, perhaps the first time she had seen Josephine speak Antivan to another native speaker; Josephine sometimes talked to herself in Antivan, or used an Antivan word or phrase where no appropriate phrase in the King’s Tongue existed, but never like this, a swift rolling liquid conversation.)

The proprietor went away, and then the food began to arrive.

First was a plate arranged with tiny bites of this and that, sharp salty cheese and thin rolls of cured meat, cubes of melon and little dishes of bitter olives and toasted almonds. Cassandra usually didn’t enjoy such fripperies—she preferred her meals solid and hearty—but Josephine’s delight was infectious, and she allowed herself to be led in tasting the melting sweet-salt of a thinly sliced ham or the resilient bite of brined goat-cheese. 

The meal continued in that vein, and between the good food, Josephine’s gentle guidance, and most of a glass of robust red wine, Cassandra began to relax. She was midway through a hearty stew made with several kinds of fish and other seafood with saffron and tomatoes and garlic (“every family has their own, and every true Antivan says that their family’s recipe is the best—but this is quite good”) when her relaxation was broken by a loud exclamation.

“My own sister, back in Antiva and not even bothering to stop to see me! I’m wounded, Fina.”

Josephine looked up from her dish, eyes wide, and then leapt suddenly to her feet with a gasped laugh and flung herself at a tall young man standing just beyond the table.

Cassandra was not usually caught flat-footed, but she could do nothing but sit with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Josephine disengaged herself and said, “Cassandra, this is my youngest brother, Alfonso. Alfonso, this is my intended, Cassandra Pentaghast.”

Cassandra got to her feet, feeling awkward and wooden. Alfonso Montilyet cut a very dashing and very Antivan bow, but—thank the Maker—made no attempt to kiss her hand. “My pleasure, Lady Pentaghast.”

“Please,” she said, “just Cassandra.” And then the anxiety came back all in a rush, and Cassandra regretted her glass of wine; she felt queasy. Here, then, and unexpectedly, her first meeting with one of Josephine’s family. Suddenly she could think of nothing at all to say.

“Alfonso is studying at the University of Antiva, here in Antiva City,” Josephine said, smoothly covering for her. “Ostensibly he is studying mathematics and astronomy, the better to someday captain one of our ships, but I have it on good authority from my mother that he spends at least as much time studying girls.” She gave Alfonso a narrow look.

“You aren’t going to put me on the defensive so easily, Fina,” Alfonso said smoothly. “You stopped in Antiva City without even letting me know you were here. I am crushed.”

“If you want to see me, you can see me at the estate, which I will be at for the next six weeks, and if what Mama writes to me is accurate, it will be none too soon, because you have been remiss in seeing our parents, despite being no more than two hours away by horse,” Josephine said, tartly, crossing her arms.

Alfonso laughed, ruefully. “I never could fool you, could I? All right. I will see you and Lady Cassandra at the estate, then.”

When he had gone, Josephine returned to her seat. “There,” she said. “Now you have met one member of my family—and it was not so bad, was it?”

“…No,” Cassandra said, but she could not help but remember that she had not managed more than three tongue-tied words. Suddenly, she found that she had no appetite.

* * *

When the carriage finally rattled to a stop in front of the grand entrance to the Montilyet estate, Josephine reached one final time for Cassandra’s hands, took them in her own and squeezed them gently. “It will all be well. You have nothing to fear, I promise you.”

Cassandra didn’t bother to argue, but she also couldn’t bring herself to agree, so she simply grunted noncommittally. She had no doubt that Josephine believed what she was saying—Josephine did not make a habit of lying to her, which was to her mind a highly important qualification for a relationship of any sort—but she also had no doubt that Josephine was, for whatever mysterious reason, somewhat less than objective when it came to Cassandra in general. The simple truth was that most people who met Cassandra either put her immediately on a pedestal and treated her with a sort of awe that made her profoundly unhappy and uncomfortable—or else if not that, she rubbed them the wrong way immediately, one way or another. Or in some awkward situations she inspired both reactions at once. Even her dearest friends, Leliana and those of the Inquisition with whom she had become close, tended to qualify their claims that she was a good person or a kind friend with something like ‘once you get to know her.’

The truth was that the first impression nearly everyone got of her was that she was imposing and severe at best, dreadfully blunt and rude at worst. She was at peace with that fact most of the time, indeed used it to excuse her tendency to avoid social situations that she considered boring and frivolous anyway, but right now, just now, she wanted badly to make a _good_ impression… and did not know how to accomplish that.

Still, in the face of Josephine’s anxious eyes, she managed a thin smile and said, “I will do my best.”

The carriage had pulled up at the front of the household, on a white gravel circle that was blinding in the shockingly golden sunlight streaming from the high blue sky, and the hired footman opened the door and aided Josephine in stepping down. (He did not offer his hand to Cassandra, which pleased but did not surprise her.) Hedges of rosemary and lavender lined the walkway, and orange and lemon trees lined the edges (bare of fruit; Josephine had had to explain that winter was the season for those fruits, to Cassandra’s bemusement; she would have expected their sunny flavor to correspond to the sunniest season). Bees hummed among the purple and blue-white flowers, and Cassandra inhaled deeply, trying to let the scent and sound calm her nerves.

The doors opened, and a man and woman emerged, and even at this distance—even had it not been clear from context who they must be—Cassandra knew instantly that they must be Josephine’s parents. It was not even so much appearance as bearing. Something she knew well of her beloved, something familiar deep in the breath and the bones.

Beside her, Josephine caught her breath, and Cassandra realized suddenly something that had eluded her during her own anxiety about this trip. Josephine had always written letters to her parents, and received them in return, long letters full of gossip and personal news—but she hadn’t seen them in the flesh in years. She had made trips home during her tenure with the ambassadorial entourage, but long travel and dangerous roads had reduced their frequency—and then these last few years, when she was with the Inquisition at Skyhold, she had not returned to Antiva at all.

She glanced down at Josephine, and saw tears glittering in her eyes, and felt a sudden shot of pain in her heart that was at least half sweetness. She let go of Josephine’s hand, slipped her hand to the small of her back and gave her a little nudge. “Go on,” she said.

Josephine smiled at her, suddenly bright with gratitude, and then she was flying up those last few steps to her father, who caught her and lifted her clean off her feet in an embrace that engulfed her in his robes.

Lady Montilyet had her hands up over her mouth, tears streaming down her face, and as soon as Josephine’s father had set her back on her feet Josephine was hugging her too, both of them weeping and laughing at once, kissing one another’s cheeks and speaking over one another as they did so, and Cassandra couldn’t even tell whether she couldn’t understand them because they were speaking Antivan or if they were simply not very coherent in their affection and joy.

(And there, again, high in Cassandra’s chest that strange ache that was half elation. Despite her fear, despite the tension that still gnawed at her about this trip, she could feel nothing but delight at witnessing this, Josephine welcomed with such open arms, the beloved daughter home at last, the parents beside themselves with happiness. She could remember no such moments with her own parents—could scarcely remember her parents at all—and even what memories she had of Anthony were inevitably faded with time, for all that she had struggled to preserve them. Certainly none of her living relatives would welcome her so. Her uncle might derive some small satisfaction from seeing her, or perhaps not; the rest of her family would view her either with skepticism and mistrust, or would hunger for her visit not because they wished to see her but because they perceived in her a potentially useful pawn. No, there was no one of her blood in all the world who would ever welcome her so.

Nor, she reminded herself, would she want them to. She had no use at all for the Pentaghasts, and would not have trusted such a welcome from any of them save for Anthony, who was at any rate long since beyond all welcomes and farewells along with all the other pleasures and pains of this world. But how strange, to see it before her so clear, this thing that was part of what made Josephine so different than Cassandra herself.)

Josephine broke away after just a few moments, turning to hold out a hand, and Cassandra ascended the stairs to stand by her side. “Papa, Mama. This is my betrothed, Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. Cassandra, my parents, Lord Yves and Lady Arella Montilyet.”

Lady Montilyet moved first, reaching to take Cassandra’s hands in her own. Looking at her, Cassandra had the disconcerting feeling that she was looking at Josephine as she would appear in another twenty-five years; Josephine took strongly after her mother in the shape of her face, the tilt of her eyes, the curve of her smile, her freckles—even the thick hair was the same, though Lady Montilyet’s was more silver than black and wound around her head like a coronet. The only differences were the color of her eyes—Lady Montilyet’s were dark brown, nearly black—and her nose, both of which Josephine had very clearly inherited from her father. She was still teary, still smiling.

“Lady Seeker,” she said, “please be welcome in our home.”

This at least Cassandra knew how to respond to. “Thank you, Lady Montilyet,” she said. “And please, call me just ‘Cassandra.’”

Lady Montilyet smiled again, and there, sure enough, were the same dimples that Josephine had. “Then you must call me Arella,” she said.

Cassandra wasn’t sure she could manage that, but she would try. She nodded, and caught Josephine’s reassuring smile out of the corner of her eye, and allowed herself to be led into the house.

* * *

Josephine moved through the halls with serene and unerring confidence, as if she had donned a comfortable garment—as if she was very much at home, which, Cassandra supposed, she was. This was after all not only her childhood home but her family’s estate; more than that, as eldest daughter and heir, someday she would be mistress of this place in her own right, would possess it not only legally but through very old claims of blood and history. The Montilyets were gentry, merchants unrelated in any way to the _blood royale_ , but their family name nevertheless was very old, and though Cassandra knew little about the Antivan peerage she did know enough to know that the Montilyet estate had been in the family for centuries. 

And this of course was why Josephine worked so hard, plied her talents so relentlessly and astutely, made connections wherever she could find them—her ambitions were tied inexorably to this house. Not the physical house, of course, but what it represented: the Montilyet family, her dearest treasure and also her heaviest responsibility.

Not for the first time, Cassandra wondered what that was like. She had walked out of Nevarra, shaking the dust off her boots and loathe to return; she felt very little but distaste for her Pentaghast relatives, and certainly saw them neither as precious nor as her duty. But Josephine took on the mantle as easily as she stepped over the threshold. Cassandra had known intellectually that she would, and yet it was different to see it, the way Josephine walked and moved and spoke here in the heart of her domain. She had always thought of Josephine’s office as the heart of Josephine’s domain, but she could see now that it was only, in its way, an extension of this place. Josephine had been carrying her family with her all along.

(Cassandra wondered, suddenly, whether Josephine’s parents would perhaps step down in her favor in the not-too-distant future. They were certainly not old; if she was any judge, Josephine’s mother was only a little more than a decade older than Cassandra herself. Yet it was hardly unheard-of for an heir perceived to be talented, vigorous, and ambitious to take the reins even before their parents entered their dotage. And Josephine was all those things….)

Josephine and her mother were talking; they spoke the King’s Tongue, though Cassandra did not know whether that was the household habit—many Orlesian noble houses spoke the King’s Tongue even when no foreigners were present, as it was considered more fashionable and refined than Orlesian, which was spoken far more among the peasantry—or if they were being polite for her sake. Her own Antivan was limited to a handful of phrases (and a few endearments that she doubted would be any use to her outside the bedroom).

The discussion seemed to be centered on whether she and Josephine would be more comfortable in the Blue Room or the Lily Room, but it was difficult to tell because they seemed to communicate almost entirely in sentence fragments, as if both of them was perfectly well aware how any given sentence of the other’s was likely to end. As far as Cassandra could tell, they decided on the Lily Room, and Josephine’s mother dispatched a runner to have their luggage sent there. And then, to Cassandra’s surprise, they stepped through a doorway that led to the outside again.

Or rather, not the outside, but a courtyard. Jasmine and climbing roses—the kind with fat cabbage-y faces—trailed around columns and up trellises. The jasmine was closed, but the roses were in full bloom, perfuming the courtyard with their rich scent. Josephine had always loved that kind of rose especially; she was far less taken with the tea roses that had beautiful fluted shapes but weak scents.

Laid out beneath an awning in the center of the courtyard was a small meal, and though the heat of the day and the residual discomfort of travel had left Cassandra with little appetite, she knew what was expected of her and was prepared. What she was not prepared for was the young woman sitting at the table.

“Josephine!” Yvette leapt to her feet in a rustle of panniered skirts that were clearly the newest fashion in Orlais, and seemed out of place indeed here. “You did not tell me you and your _paramour_ were going to be visiting! I very nearly was not able to travel from Orlais in time to meet you!”

“Yvette,” Josephine said. “Perhaps I wished to allow Cassandra some time to settle in before inflicting the entire family on her?”

“But to exclude your own sister!” Then Yvette smiled. (She and Josephine shared a remarkable resemblance, but Yvette’s face was narrower and she had her mother’s nose rather than her father’s, which gave her an impish, almost foxlike mien, especially when she was smiling that smile that showed entirely too many teeth.) “Never mind. Mama let slip when you would arrive, and so here I am!”

Josephine shifted her suspicious look from Yvette to her mother. Lady Arella simply gave her a smile of gentle amusement. Cassandra had the feeling that most likely she had long since disentangled herself from these disagreements between her offspring. Josephine sighed. “Very well, I suppose there’s no help for it. Cassandra, this is my sister, Yvette. She was at Halamshiral when we were, but I don’t believe you met. Yvette, Cassandra.”

“I am pleased to make your—” Cassandra began, by rote, but it turned out to not be necessary because Yvette was already talking.

“No, we did not meet. You didn’t think to introduce me then, Josie.” She pouted.

“I was already busy doing my best to make sure you didn’t speak to _anyone_ of any importance,” Josephine said, darkly.

“I didn’t even have any idea that you two were an item! Your own sister, kept in the dark about something so important!” Yvette plopped into a seat. Josephine sighed again, gesturing for Cassandra to sit, and then joining her. Her parents sat as well, once again allowing their daughters to handle this, though Cassandra caught the occasional amused glance between them. “Unless of course you were not yet an item…?”

They had been, by then, albeit it was relatively new that it had been acknowledge between them. That was in fact part of why Cassandra had stayed well away from Josephine through the entire ordeal (and to her it had been an ordeal, more grim and wearying than any darkspawn battle); she had at that point been both infatuated beyond reason, afraid to even spend time in the same room as Josephine in the presence of witnesses lest she say or do something intensely foolish. Not that she was no longer smitten, of course, but she felt more centered in it, now, less out of control.

Josephine waved a hand. “What gossip you will carry back to your friends, you will not hear from me. It is enough for them to know that Cassandra and I fell in love while serving the Inquisition together, and will be married in seven months’ time.”

“A spring wedding,” Lady Arella murmured. “That will be delightful, and the weather won’t be too hot for your visitors from the south.”

“It is not _at all_ enough,” Yvette protested. “I want to know…” She began to tick off her requests on her fingers. “How you met; how she courted you or how you courted her, however that went; how you fell in love; what everyone said when they found out; how she proposed—or did you propose?—and what you said, or what she said. My friends will want all the details!”

“Which is precisely why I am not giving them to you!” It was a remarkable thing. Normally it took nothing less than sheer diplomatic disaster to ruffle Josephine so, and yet a handful of words from her sister could apparently accomplish it. Even more remarkable: Lord and Lady Montilyet simply exchanged another amused glance. Under normal circumstances, even a hint of Josephine’s ire could freeze the blood in the veins of even the staunchest heart.

“Fine,” Yvette said. “I shall have Lady Cassandra tell me all the details, then.”

“Ahm,” Cassandra said, alarmed.

“If you dare,” Josephine said, “I will tell that handsome tutor of yours precisely why you always need extra help with the close brush strokes. Don’t think I won’t.”

“If you do that, I will tell Cassandra every one of those stories about you that you’d rather she didn’t hear. I think I remember some that will surprise even you. Don’t think _I_ won’t.”

“ _Yvette—_ ”

“Ah,” Lord Yves said. “And here’s the food.”

Laying out the many small dishes distracted Josephine and Yvette from their bickering, and by the time it was done they were on to a more pleasant topic—the gardens, and what to do with them. Lord Yves pointed out each heirloom rose bush or lemon tree in the garden. Yvette suggested improvements in the Orlesian style (“perhaps a nice topiary?”) and Josephine lamented that it was far too warm in Antiva for crystal grace, though she had developed a fondness for it in Skyhold.

Cassandra—having eaten the bread and salt required of her by Antivan hospitality customs—sat back with her cup of wine and let them have at it.

* * *

Dinner that night was a quiet affair with just the five of them—well, as quiet as it could be with both Yvette and Josephine in attendance. That evening, in the Lily Room, Cassandra managed the unpacking (she had never liked having servants handle her unpacking for her, preferring to handle her belongings herself so she knew where everything was—although she had let them whisk away Josephine’s gowns to be pressed) while Josephine took down her hair in front of the small mirror at the dressing-table. 

“There, that was not so bad, was it?” Josephine asked.

“No,” Cassandra admitted. “But I fear I am still worried about tomorrow.” The evening gathering was to be her first official meeting with Josephine’s family, not just her brothers but also her many aunts and uncles and first cousins. The Montilyets were not _as_ numerous as the Pentaghasts, but apparently not for lack of trying.

“You will be fine,” Josephine said. “You survived Yvette, after all.”

“She isn’t so bad,” Cassandra said. “And you do love her very much, or you wouldn’t argue so. Although she might be less inclined to prod you if you didn’t respond quite so vehemently.”

“Whose side are you on?”

Cassandra pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You must remember, I _was_ the annoying younger sister, once upon a time. And I assuredly pestered Anthony sometimes simply because I wanted his attention.” It was odd, to speak of Anthony so casually, and she found herself feeling out the empty spot in her heart that still grieved bitterly for him, as one might nudge a sore tooth. But it did not pain her as it once had; she would always miss him, but the pain was less acute.

“Traitor,” Josephine said. “Ah, well. At any rate, Antoine is restful after Yvette. The unshakable serenity that I am reasonably adept at pretending to when it is useful—well, he actually has it. Inherited from my father. He is married to a very charming woman named Iuliana, with two children—”

“Eugenio and Nina, yes, you mentioned,” she said, and then laughed at Josephine’s startled expression. “I _do_ pay attention when you tell me things, most of the time.”

“I’m sorry, I had just assumed that of all things unlikely to hold your attention, gossip about other peoples’ nieces and nephews would be high on the list.”

“Mm,” Cassandra said. What she thought but did not say was that things that were so important to Josephine were of course important to her as well—even if, yes, they held as little general interest as news about someone else’s family.

(They would, after all, be her family as well, and sooner rather than later. And quite possibly as more than niece or nephew; her understanding was that adoption and fostering of closely-related children was a common way for childless heads of household to name heirs, and it seemed unlikely that Josephine would produce an heir in the normal way.)

“That’s Antoine. Then Yvette, who you’ve met, and then Laurien, who is something of a hothead, but very skilled at work with his hands—he has little patience for books, but is exceptionally skilled at work in the shipyard. Alfonso you met last night, and I am sorry to say that I know him least well. He was only five when I left for my education in Orlais, and for most of his childhood I only got news of him from my mother’s letters.” She sighed.

“You missed them a great deal,” Cassandra said, and then felt foolish for stating the obvious.

But Josephine simply smiled. “Yes, very much. It was necessary, if we were to do anything but descend further and further into obscurity; we have come closer in the past decade to losing this house entirely than I would like to admit. But it was difficult, to be apart from them so much in Orlais—and then to be even farther away in Skyhold. At least in Orlais I could visit from time to time. Mother was most heartbroken, I think, for all that she tried to hide it.”

“But you’re home now,” Cassandra said.

“Yes,” Josephine said. “For nearly two months. And then once we are wed, I hope to spend much of my time here.”

Cassandra nodded, but felt her stomach twist. It was all the more important, then, to make a good impression on Josephine’s family if this was where she was to live much of her life.

If only she had _any_ idea how to do that.

* * *

The next day, she spent the morning at prayers in the Montilyet chapel (small, but serviceable for her needs) and training, and—thank the Maker—Josephine had arranged for a private luncheon for the two of them, in the gardens, with Yvette distinctly _not_ in attendance. As Cassandra was coming to realize was common for the Antivan midday meal, they had bread and thin slices of hard cheese and curls of cured meat, and pickles and olives, and wedges of fresh fruit, and agua fresca, with heavier dishes to come in the evening.

The evening, when she would meet Josephine’s extended family—Josephine’s large, involved, and by all accounts _exuberant_ extended family.

Josephine chose to spend the afternoon exploring the Montilyet estate, making notes of each change—the rooms renovated since she’d been home, the rooms closed off, the vinyards in active use and the vinyards left fallow—the docks, and their level of repair. Cassandra considered joining her, but chose, in the end, to occupy herself with her books, in an attempt to distract herself from the evening.

It was only partially successful.

When dusk fell, she had dressed in her finest clothes, the formal garb of the Seekers; its black and silver starkness would stand out against the mellower blue and gold of the Montilyet family, but was still far palatable to her than the goldenrod-and-black of the Pentaghasts.

She felt herself significantly overdressed when Josephine joined her in the same soft gold kirtle she had worn all day, decorated only with a vivid blue sash tied low around her hips—but she said nothing about Cassandra’s clothing, merely smiled and kissed her on the cheek, and Cassandra thought that perhaps—perhaps—it would not be as bad as all that.

* * *

The Pentaghasts were a far larger family than the Montilyets, and yet if Cassandra had had to assess on a gut level of feeling she would have guessed the other way. For the Pentaghasts, though they were a sprawling family, never came all together; they mistrusted each other too much for anything more than small shadowy gatherings, or when politics forced them into a ballroom all at once they separated into tight knots, interacting only carefully and suspiciously with one another.

The Montilyets, by contrast, were a whirl, a sprawl, a clutter of friendly faces, clasping hands, laughter and overlapping circles of chatter, so that it seemed that no one ever finished a sentence—and no one minded.

She met Antoine, as tall and broad a presence as Lord Yves, and somehow grave and merry all at once—like Lord Yves again. She met Iuliana, slim and bright as a candleflame and quick with a quip or a compliment—and she met Eugenio and Nina, who held still long enough to be introduced to their soon-to-be-aunt and then raced into the shrubberies to play. 

She met Laurien, and knew immediately that Josephine’s assessment had been right; he had the bearing of a craftsman, and the scars of work at the shipyard on his fingers and palms, that she saw when he clasped her hand in greeting. She met Alfonso again, carrying little Nina on his shoulders and laughing, and begging her to show him her swordplay the next day.

“She shall defeat you within seconds,” Josephine said at Cassandra’s elbow, “you know this.”

“Ah, but among my fellows at the university, how much the better to be beaten by the Hero of Orlais and Champion of the Inquisition than to defeat any lesser opponent?” Alfonso said, and bowed, and nearly toppled Nina off his shoulders but caught her at the last moment, laughing.

Cassandra had no idea what to make of any of this.

Nor did she know what to make of Josephine’s aunt, who wore so many flounces on her dress and ribbons in her hair that she appeared as a walking anemone, and who begged information about the fashion sense of the new Divine. Or the tall, thin gentleman who cornered her and spoke with quiet dignity for an absurdly long time about the making of navigational star maps, which apparently was his passion. Nor was she quite sure what to do with Yvette, who alternated pestering her extravagantly to sit for her painting with stories about Josephine’s youth. (The latter, Cassandra could not say that she entirely minded. Although in the interest of fairness—and Cassandra always strove to be fair—she would need to get Josephine’s side of the story of the stolen lavender-honey ice cream, or the tale of beautifying their aunt’s lapdog—although Yvette was still holding out on the story of the cliffs, presumably keeping that in reserve in hopes of getting Cassandra to sit for a portrait.) And Cassandra had no earthly idea what to do with Josephine’s great-great-aunt, as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, whose eyes glittered like diamonds and whose every word was transparent innuendo or lascivious pun. Or both.

(Perhaps Lady Violante Montilyet would do well by being introduced to Sera. Certainly at minimum they could share their talents at filthy wordplay.)

It was late into the evening, when Cassandra was in an overwhelmed whirl of Montilyets, that an older woman tapped her gently on the shoulder and said, “Lady Cassandra? Walk with me, if you will.”

Cassandra went.

* * *

Her rescuer’s name was Marioun Montilyet, and at first she simply guided Cassandra to a quiet place and sat with her. She was an older woman—older than Josephine’s parents, but not, probably, as old as her grandparents would have been. Then she said, “The Montilyets are a wonderful people.”

Cassandra gazed across the garden, at the people talking over one another, laughing, embracing; at children kissed and embraced, sent off to play, gathered back; at the loving, chattering, utterly _overwhelming_ flock—and with Josephine at the center, Josephine in gold and blue, the pivot around which this family turned. The heir, returned. 

“Yes,” she said. “They are.”

“But rather overwhelming, if you aren’t used to them,” Marioun said, and for the first time Cassandra truly listened to her, looked at her, and realized—

“You aren’t Antivan.”

Marioun laughed. “I have lived in Antiva for nearly three-quarters of my life, and I am seventy-two years old, so I hardly feel like a foreigner. But you’re not wrong. I was born in Kirkwall. I married Yves’ youngest uncle many years ago—an arranged marriage, but a happy one.” She patted Cassandra’s knee. “So I understand what it’s like to be a southerner, suddenly thrust into such a very Antivan family.”

It wasn’t so much being a southerner, Cassandra thought, as simply never having _had_ a family at all, not since she was a very small girl. But she didn’t feel like revealing this to this near-stranger, so she merely nodded. 

Marioun went on—and now that she knew what to listen for, she could hear the hard vowels of Kirkwall beneath the softly rolling consonants of Antiva, in her voice. “But they are a wonderful people, the Montilyets. Noisy and nosy and interconnected, but wonderful.” She gave Cassandra a shrewd look. “A wonderful family. And of course you have swooped in and snatched up its most promising daughter.”

Cassandra felt her spine tighten. Stiffly, she said, “I have had no intention of snatching up—”

But Marioun was waving her hand. “I know, I know. But you have no conception what a difficulty you caused for the great families of Antiva, do you? Josephine Montilyet: beautiful, accomplished, intelligent, well-connected, charming. Not, perhaps, wealthy now, but those who are betting men are betting on the rising fortunes of House Montilyet—for the first time in four generations. So, most likely soon to be wealthy. The young lords of Antiva were jostling to be considered for her hand—and then suddenly the Montilyets stopped even considering proposals. Word was that Josephine was smitten with someone, and would not entertain the prospect of other potential connections.” Marioun cocked her head to one side. “I daresay they were right.”

“Josephine has always considered her house’s needs before her own,” Cassandra said, just as stiffly.

“Of course she has. I suppose it is excellent luck that it appears that she has fallen genuinely in love with someone who is highly connected in the Chantry _and_ is a princess of Nevarra.”

“I never use that title!” Cassandra said. “I—”

“Nonetheless.” Marioun smiled, and patted her knee again, and ignored her bristling. “Allow me to give you some advice. Antivans pay respect to titles, but they appreciate drama. And what better drama than the Nevarran princess who has given up her family and her title, who has dedicated her life to the Chantry and the sword, and who then falls in love with a gracious and beautiful woman of Antiva?”

“It could be in a book,” Cassandra muttered.

“Yes,” said Marioun of Kirkwall. “It assuredly could.”

* * *

Morning. The Lily Room had beautiful northern light, so they did not suffer the worst glare of the morning upon waking but a soft golden glow.

Josephine turned over into Cassandra’s arms, blinked herself awake, and smiled. Her hand curved around Cassandra’s cheek, her touch soft. “You seem to have survived meeting my family,” she said.

“I was reassured,” Cassandra said, drily, “that a Pentaghast princess was likely to be welcomed in any case.”

Josephine frowned, pushing herself up on one elbow. “You don’t think that that is why—?”

“No,” Cassandra said, and kissed her: her lips, the corner of her eye, the temple where her hair frizzed into waves. “No, no. No. The Maker knows—and more to the point, Leliana knows—that if you wished a marriage for political reasons, there would be much easier choices than me, princess or not.” She kissed the corner of Josephine’s mouth, observed her in the soft dawnlight. “And you… you are worth every family dinner, every difficult choice of heir, you are worth—”

Josephine tilted her face away, her cheeks high with color. “You flatter me too much, my darling.”

“It’s true,” Cassandra said. “I will even endure terrible innuendo for you—”

“Oh, Maker, you met Grand-Aunt Violante,” Josephine said, and put her hands over her face.

Cassandra tugged her hands again, and kissed her again. “And I will do it happily,” she said.

They kissed for a while, in the soft rose-gold of dawnlight, Josephine’s arms warm and tender around her, Josephine’s breath soft on her lips.

It was only later that Cassandra said, “Although I do want to hear about the time you stole the lavender ice cream. And ate all of it without sharing, Yvette apparently still holds a grudge about that last part.”

Josephine said, “Oh, _Maker_ ,” and hit her with a pillow.


End file.
